How the green field spread open her sweets to relish of the big-eyed Sky,
And lofty trees encompass to cover her shame all in vain;
My love hangs about my neck, and ensigns my brow with pain;
Though demure Pride seeks to relieve me, but fruitless is the try.
And though that I walk the village through like this,
Terribly sick with my burden, and dying quite slowly,
Yet do I harshly reprove all reliever that pity me –
For I know, when this pain ends, even then my life doth cease!
Some aptly do stop their lives, to end their sorrows;
But this peculiar pain, where it ends, gives a worse misery start;
Who a viler role now plays, than that old pain’s gentler part –
Like a patient whose leg’s to be cut to save him, dies the instant he knows.
So this pain, by soft relief, begets a viler son,
Who excels his father in all his exploits, and wreaks a havoc uncommon!